Portrait of Beauty
by faeryespell
Summary: Draco contemplates his wife’s beauty as she has her portrait done. DM/HG


Summary: Draco contemplates on his wife's beauty as she has her portrait done. DM/HG

**A/N**: Here's a short but sweet little one-shot for you...

Portrait of Beauty

It was a complete waste of time. So she had been right. As was always the case, he mused with an inward smile.

Of course, the artist was talented, there was no doubt about that. Draco had never seen such a inhuman capability to imprison actual life in a painting with just a series of careful strokes, in a human being, much less a Muggle.

A Muggle artist had been her idea, once she finally had given in to his persisting. And much to her surprise, he had agreed; 'a moving portrait would hardly capture you', he had told her.

But now, as he stood behind the artist and his canvas that showed so far only the head of his beloved wife, he decided that not even a still, non-magical portrait could capture her. Her. Her being. Her essence.

Her beauty.

A waste of time then, this portrait. But then again, it was a chance for Draco to see just how perfect a subject of portraiture his wife was.

Despite her reluctance to have herself painted, she had dressed herself in a flamboyant, emerald-green gown embellished with silver embroidery -his House colors, he thought nostalgically and amusedly- that revealed and accentuated her pale, smooth shoulders; had toyed with her thick, luscious hair so that it fell in little ringlets around her immaculate, blushing face, throwing her into the very likeness of a porcelain doll.

In simple words, she looked stunning. Of course, Draco found her stunning every day, whatever garment she wore, whatever style her hair would adopt.

For the sixteen years he had known her, she had looked stunning every single moment. This moment was merely a highlight. Like their wedding day. Like the Yule Ball.

Beautiful.

Through and through.

"Draco," she called out suddenly, breaking through his thoughts.

He blinked, and took an automatic step towards her. "Sorry, did you say something?"

She shook her head ever so slightly so as not to disturb the artist's painting. "No, I just wanted to ask you... where do you plan to put this portrait anyway?"

He grinned. "In the living room, for all the world to see."

The pink tinge on her cheeks deepened. "Draco, you know I hate publicity."

"What publicity?" he said innocently. "This is just a way of telling the world how beautiful my wife is. Besides, you handled worse cases of publicity before. And you _still _do, being friends with Potter and all."

"But that's different!" she exclaimed. "I didn't plan those!"

"Nor did you plan _this_," he said with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. "That's for certain."

He mirrored her soft smile, and then slowly, his eyes travelled from her perfect face to its twin on the artist's canvas. Again, he marveled at the artist's talent.

No, a painting could never fully capture his wife, but it could come close, like this one. He could just see the sparkle in the painted, warm chocolate eyes, and a hint of the cleverness that was so deeply portrayed in their live counterparts. The skin, so flawlessly rendered in tones of cream and ochre, seemed so real, he could almost see it pulsing. And the hair was so explicitly detailed; every strand stood out as it wove in and out of shadow.

He knew a Muggle saying: _a picture is worth a thousand words_. So how many words was the real thing worth? he wondered, looking back at his wife.

Not enough, in his opinion. Not enough.

"Draco..." she suddenly murmured, and something in the tone of her voice made him take several steps towards her.

"What's wrong?" he asked concernedly, while, respectfully, the artist lowered his brush.

She gazed down at her hands, fingering the glittering moissanite ring Draco had given to her on the day of their engagement five years before- she wore it just above their sterling silver wedding ring. For a fleeting moment, he was afraid he had hurt her, or had risked their marriage in some way. But then she looked up at him, and, in the smallest of voices, said:

"Can you be with me in the picture?"

He released a sigh of relief. "Is that all?"

Her lips, her glossy, plump lips, twisted into a pout. "Draco, it would make me feel so much better. And less awkward. Please?"

He let out another sigh, this time of slight exasperation, but all the same he glanced at the artist.

"It's quite alright with me, sir," said the artist with a little bow, dabbing his paintbrush on a stained piece of cloth.

"Fine," said Draco decisively, and he walked across the room to his wife's side. "Don't think you've escaped, Granger," he told her in mock seriousness, "I still plan on having a solo portrait of you in the living room."

"Ambitious little ferret, aren't you?" she teased, and he grinned, brushing aside tendrils of her caramel hair to plant a kiss on her forehead.

He took her ringed hand gently in his, and moved behind the velvet chair upon which she sat on. The fresh, flowery scent of her shampoo wafted up through his nostrils, and he inhaled it with pleasure.

"I love you, Draco," she said tenderly, twisting her head to look up at him.

He tightened his hold on her hand and bent down to whisper in her ear. "I love you too, Hermione."

And he straightened, she turned away, and both smiled for the portrait.

oOo

**A/N**: Like it?


End file.
